Movement
by Viking Princess
Summary: It is now a collection of long drabbles, if three constitutes a collection. More will follow. Huzzah!
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first attempt at a GitS story, so please be gentle. This may become a collection of drabbles. Or not. Hope you enjoy it, and please review!_

**Movement**

There had been a time when she had felt trapped inside this heavy artificial body. She had hated the lumbering, the thick fumbling with forks and shoe strings that other children performed with nimble fingers. The falls and scraped shins of a healthy childhood to her became marks of a failure to pilot this alien ship she found herself locked into.

And so she pursued perfection. Not in the way natural human women had done since time began with the primping of hair and skin and the slavish dedication to the scale. No, none of those things were within her control any longer or even important. Instead she sought with intense focus to learn every nuance of movement and action. She single-mindedly absorbed every scrap of information, memorized every muscle reaction and practiced each movement until the result was unquestionably correct. Until her prosthetic body became not just a shell but a work of art in motion; an extraordinary machine. Until she was judged to be one of the best in the world at doing what she did.

And how, she asked herself, was this any different than a professional athlete? They too knew their bodies better than most. They too could do extraordinary things with the muscles and bones under their control. The difference, she decided as she sat on the edge of her bed and studied her extended hand, was the feeling of ownership. Such was the difference between hearing a master pianist and seeing a ballerina dance. It is art without question, but the pianist plays upon his instrument. The dancer _is_ the art.

She nodded softly and flexed each finger individually, watching carefully as she did. Yes, there would always be something missing from every motion she made, whether it was discernable to others or not. She no longer remembered what it felt like to flex her fingers to relieve the pressure of the joints or merely to stretch her sinews, the organic quality of the need for movement. No. Her fingers flexed because she told them to. And she watched. And felt nothing.


	2. In Your Eyes

**In Your Eyes**

It was fortunate that he never had to worry about his eyes giving him away. It was a strange perk; one he clung to when he suffered his occasional moments of dissociation. And he often goaded Togusa on the subject – that his face was an open book to read, often in the most inappropriate of times. To think of it, Batou often teased Togusa of everything about him that was still real and human. Soft. Malleable. Expressive.

But Togasa hadn't seen what Batou had seen. He hadn't been trained to kill and set loose in the jungle. The terrible, paradoxical beauty of the sun filtering through the canopy of ancient trees, sparkling the dew that had collected on the haphazardly sprawled bodies. An entire village dead. Tortured and dead, red, red blood everywhere, on his own hands… had he been there? Had he done it?

In those moments, the brief and excruciating flashbacks that kept the horror fresh and unhealed in his subconscious, he was supremely thankful that his eyes no longer had the ability to register terror or emit tears. He simply settled his lips together and used his borrowed skin to form a sheltering mask until the moment had passed. It fooled everyone; no one the wiser to his dark memories.

Except one. And for that reason, among many others, he watched over her, always looking for a bullet to jump in front of that might have her name on it. She didn't need his eyes to tell her what he was thinking. She had seen what he saw. She knew what lay hidden, unabsolved, in the name of duty. And she felt, as he did, the panicky scrabble to cling to even a single shred of the softness of what once was and never would be again.

She didn't need his protection and they both knew it. Yet she allowed it, as though to say she understood. And she pretended not to notice when he studied her a bit too long. His eyes didn't give him away – and neither did she.


	3. Other Side of the Fence

**Other Side of the Fence**

There definitely were days when he felt like a relic from another time. It hadn't felt that way in his old job, working in the police department. The rank of detective gave him equal footing among his colleagues and his God given smarts took care of the rest.

Here in Section 9, however, he always felt one step behind. This was a whole other level to the game, and he couldn't help but feel that he wasn't equipped for it. Most of the time he could keep the feeling under wraps, working his brain overtime and being as daring as his familial obligations and ever present sense of mortality would allow. But it was never enough. His body, he mused to himself, was as outdated as the pistol he held in his hand as he fired off shot after shot at the distant target.

Some people called the other members of the team crazy, reckless, extraordinary. Togusa knew better. Their superhuman feats stemmed from dissociation of what was warm and human and unpredictable. They simply believed they had nothing to lose and so would accomplish seemingly impossible things. Such as tonight when he had witnessed the Major snipe her target while hanging from a rip line, then cut herself loose to perform a hair tingling swan dive twenty stories to the city street below. _Unbelievable_, the duped swat team had whispered reverently as the cloaked Togusa slipped away. _Superhuman_.

He knew it was stupid to wish himself in the Major's shoes. But to do what she did with such seeming ease, and yeah, to be the object of open mouthed wonder as he had seen tonight was something he allowed himself to consider on when safely alone. The section would pay for the body swap, top military grade of course. They would fund the crippling price of upkeep. And he would have the tools he needed to not only keep up but to excel.

Yeah, it was an interesting idea. It was something he thought about daily. But then he would think of the touch of his wife's soft skin. He couldn't be sure it would be the same, the feeling of holding her from inside a prosthetic. So he took more late night target practice.


End file.
